Bleeker's world went strobe light. Red. Wanted to kill the motherfucker.
And then it got real bad.
*
Scratches on Mustafa's neck. Bandages not long enough to cover them. Mustafa had said that Adem hadn't killed the man's woman and child. Of course he hadn't.
Bleeker erupted, grabbed Mustafa around the neck like he was going to choke him. Pushed him to the ground. The back of his head popped the floor hard enough to make a welt. But Mustafa had plenty of experience with street fighting. He pulled the detective's hands off his throat, which is how he got the scratches, as some other cops came in to pull Bleeker off, drag him across the room. They helped Mustafa to his feet. Asked what happened.
Like it wasn't already obvious. Lucky they didn't suspend Bleeker right then. Mustafa's blood under his fingernails. Another cop got a paper towel and some peroxide for Mustafa. Not serious wounds, but plenty of sting to them.
Of course, right? You don't tell a man his one ray of hope is a dead end. Mustafa tried to explain, even after that. He wanted Bleeker to understand. It was the friend. Someone named "Jibriil." Mustafa said it over and over. Another couple of cops led Bleeker from the room, stowed him in the Captain's office to cool down.
*
His colleagues started the apologies, hoping to avoid a lawsuit, obviously. They didn't care for the interloper no more than Bleeker had. But this guy saying his son was in Somalia, they needed him. Asked if they could talk to him in the morning, put him up in a hotel. They'd already searched Adem's apartment, couldn't find his computer. Couldn't find his backpack. Spaces in the small bookshelf in his bedroom, but none of the remaining books were provocative. Mostly texts for school. PS3 in the front room, rented games spread on the floor. The roommate had been questioned, released, and was headed home to Minneapolis for the weekend.
The captain came in, ignored Bleeker, sat behind his desk. Still looking down, he said, "He's not pressing charges. Said he understands, you know, because of what happened."
Bleeker nodded.
The captain let out a sigh. "This isn't going to work, you on this, if it's connected."
"Let's not…not yet."
"What am I supposed to do, then? You're lucky. You need to take some time off."
"And do what, spend time with Trish?"
The captain stood, finally looked over. Eyebrows scrunched. "Go apologize to the guy, all right?"
Mustafa was sitting at a table out in the main area, elbows on the table, leaning forward. He supposed he should make the sort of an apology that had been "legaled" to death, covering all asses. He looked up at Mustafa, said, "You should watch your mouth."
Mustafa slouched again. Laughed. "Aw, fuck this." He got up. The other detective told him they'd paid for a room, told him there was a small Somali restaurant downtown above the ethnic grocery store. Mustafa said he wanted some ribs instead.
Bleeker said, "No, really. Check it out. Good goat."
Mustafa gave him a curt nod. "Tomorrow? When I'm back here? You stay away from me."
"Sleep tight, asshole."
*
Instead of driving home, Bleeker drove by the budget hotel where they'd set up Mustafa. He didn't know why. Kept thinking maybe he should talk to the guy again without all the other cops around. But then it would turn into another fight, wouldn't it? Bleeker felt punchy. Banged the roof of his car. No matter how many times he hit the roof or the steering wheel, he still felt full of it, whatever it was.
Only a handful of cars in the lot, one of them the hotel van. Bleeker guessed the yellow import with the big spoiler and the shiny rims belonged to Mustafa. Bahdoon. Whatever. After he'd left, Bleeker looked him up on the internet. Some brushes with cops all over the cities, kind of a minor celebrity among the hip hop crowd, but then he disappeared. As of about eight, nine years back, no more articles, no more arrest reports. None of it. So maybe he'd gone legit. Or maybe he'd become even more like Capone, insulated himself even better. The Somali gangs were small and scattered, but growing in strength. They had their hands in drugs, sex trafficking, guns, all that. And they were vicious.
Bleeker didn't want to go home. To either one of them-the place he still sometimes shared with Trish until they figured this all out, or the apartment out in a small farm town about eight miles west of NPR. It was cheap, it was nearly empty, and it was full of empty rum bottles. So he parked in the parking lot of the Goodwill store next to the hotel and waited. For what, he wasn't sure. Just a hunch.
Sundown, barely four o'clock. He kept waiting. Listening to talk radio descend into noise. Politics gave way to conspiracy gave way to sports. And then, out of the corner of his eye, Bleeker saw Mustafa pushing through the hotel doors and walking over to, yep, the yellow car. Got in. Drove out of the parking lot. Once he had made a left at the light, Bleeker followed.
The snow was starting to blow harder. Tough wind. Lots of people heading home from work, slow going. A few cars separated Bleeker from Mustafa. But it was a small town. Maybe twelve thousand, but it never felt like it. So many people knew each other, so easy to get around, it was surprising to realize that a town this small could even hold that many people. And in this weather, most of them were staying home.
Followed him downtown, which was pretty much a four-block stretch of buildings built in the thirties, only half of them still in use for businesses, some with apartments on the second and third floors. There was a sign on top of one building, old letters held up by a steel grid, announcing HOTEL NEW PHEASANT RUN, but as long as Bleeker had lived here there'd been no such place.
They passed the store owned by the Somalis, the ones who kept the room upstairs as a restaurant, lucky to have more than one cover a night. After all, the Somalis could make everything on their menu at home, and the Minnesotans didn't want to take to the snow when there was a good ol' hot dish waiting for them. Mustafa took a left at a light. Bleeker followed. Only one car between them now. The gang leader pulled into a parking lot behind a block of businesses. Bleeker kept going forward and pulled into the drive of the utility company where he could see through the shrubs, their bare branches clogged with snow. He could still make out the yellow import parking outside a bar. Well, mostly a bar. It was a pretty popular hole called Chuck Wagon. Also a damned fine place for patty melts and fried walleye. But not for ribs. Didn't the guy say he wanted some ribs?
Mustafa climbed out, snugged on a wool cap, and trudged through two inches of snow to the back door, went inside.
Dinner. Bleeker was hungry too. Why not go in, join him, share a beer and burgers, see if he could talk more about the kid running off to Somalia? It had been big news lately, a bunch of Somali men in their late teens and early twenties from the Twin Cities disappearing, then turning up in Africa fighting for this terrorist army made up of young Muslims trying to impose Sharia Law on the country. This after years of civil war amongst the various tribes still coming to terms with being clumped together as countrymen. Mogadishu, already in ruins, was worse now as these boys with rocket launchers and machine guns did unholy things to anyone who didn't practice Islam like they did. All the horror stories Bleeker had heard from the Somalis in town, so much worse than what he had experienced in Iraq as a Ranger for the first Gulf War. And, shit, that had been brutal enough.
But he stayed in the car. Turned the motor off. He didn't mind the cold. Sometimes he felt more at home when the numbers dipped below zero. A year in the desert was all it took to make him appreciate this frozen hellscape so much more. He'd had enough hot-bloodedness. The cold wind kept him even. And Cindy's death had raised his core temperature to a boil that, if he wasn't careful, might lose him his job.